


Close Encounters of the Bird Kind

by gojimun



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Gen, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-06-23 11:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15605055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gojimun/pseuds/gojimun
Summary: A strange man has fallen asleep at the coffee counter.





	1. Fluffed Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> hey! i'm not 100% sure where this is going or if i'll finish it, but there's a serious dearth of screech content and it hurts my soul. take this from me and be merry

You realize about when he falls asleep at the waiting counter that the man whose coffee order you’ve just taken probably isn’t quite well. The extra-large-latte with three shots of espresso should have tipped you off, you suppose, but you’ve made a habit to try not to judge the people in this city--the whole dang place is weird, and after a while serving them drinks you get used to it, but even then you don’t see a lot of folks just up and conking out right in the middle of the store. A couple customers give him and you both strange looks, and it occurs to you that you should wake him; you’re almost reluctant, with how peaceful the guy seems nodded off on the marble, but prod him with one hand anyway.

“Sir,” you say, only the least bit annoyed. “Sir. Get up.”

He squawks, a little too loudly, and clutches one hand to his chest as though a gun’s been pointed to his head. “OH!” When his eyes fall on you, and then to the onlookers snickering, his pale face flushes. He hides his nose under the collar of his woolen turtleneck.

“I do apologize,” he says, “for any disturbance. Insomnia, you know. It’s quite a bother. Oo-hoo. I’ll be—”

“Your coffee.”

“Yes! Yes. I’ll fetch that and be off. Apologies, apologies.”

He spends the next few moments with his hands clasped tightly at his waist, brow knitted. You wonder if he’s thinking about starting a conversation. People-watching’s always a lot more entertaining when they try to make friends--if they’re not absolute creeps, that is. Lucky for Mister Malaise here, he’s just bumbling enough to be tolerable. 

As of now, though, he looks mortified. You can hear quiet “peep”-ing from under his sweater when you hand him his drink, and he adamantly refuses to make eye contact after he takes it from you. His eyes are gigantic, you realize, if only because you’ve noticed his shyness with them. They’re like fucking satellites. 

Crazy. 

“Apologies,” he repeats, and hands you a few dollars too many. He rushes out the door. For a second you stand there mystified before you’ve got to resume business as usual.

“That’s the manager of the Old Oak Tree, yeah? Freak,” says someone in line. They take a look at their watch, and shrug. “Nice guy, though.”

—

The next morning before your shift you decide to go to the Old Oak Tree, a homey independent book shop situated just down the street. It’s open--you don’t think, as a matter of fact, that you’ve ever seen it closed--and when you push the door ajar it jingles with little wind-chimes shaped like songbirds attached to where it hits the ceiling. The bookshelves are arranged lovingly, just organized enough to appear professional and just haphazard enough to look alive. Atmosphere’s pretty spot-on, you’ve got to admit. You might walk out with a book or two.

At the counter, where you expect to see the little tired man, you’re instead greeted with a young woman in her early twenties who leans casually against the counter, perusing a worn volume about theoretical physics with her electric blue hair pushed back behind her ear. You wave her over.

“Oh,” she says. “I don’t actually work here. I guess I technically do? But, uh, not really. I’m not under any contract or anything.”

“Then what’s the badge?” You gesture to a name tag on her chest, silver and polished, that reads KAREN. 

She snorts, chuckling. “I’m just the bookstoresitter. It’s like… house-sitting, but for a business. That’s what I call it, anyway. My payment’s a free home library. Also nine-fifty an hour.” Marking her page with a gentle doggy-ear, Karen leans against the register. It dings, snapping open, and she stammers before pushing it back into position.

You suppose it must be pretty impossible for a bookstore to not be run by nerds. 

“Me and a couple friends rotate whenever Ozzie’s not around. It’s on convenience. Other than that he’s got, like, maybe one other employee besides himself, and I’m pretty sure they’re a potted plant.” She laughs awkwardly, the only indication she was joking at all. 

“Ozzie?”

The windchimes tinkle again, and you turn around to see a familiar short man pushing open the glass door, looking entirely too chipper for nine in the morning. A pair of mechanical wings, all tarp and wire, sprout from his back, and he’s got maybe the worst case of helmet hair you’ve ever laid eyes on. When he sees you, he almost trips over his own feet. 

“Speak of the devil,” says Karen, waving hello. “Hey, you doing deliveries today? I’ve got your bag set up. Ms. Hevermann says she needs her order stat. I think she’s throwing a party for that book club or whatever.”

‘Ozzie’ blinks, cocking his head, big eyes squinted nearly shut. “I was under the impression she had cancelled? She called yesterday. Three times, in fact.”

“Called again like twenty minutes ago. I get the feeling this one’s pretty decisive.”

“Of course.”

The little man looks your way, but you can’t keep your eyes off the wings. He must be the local super--you realize you’ve seen him before on the cable news, eagerly discussing his heroics. He’s been a real novelty around these parts since his book delivery service was announced. Most of them have kept their double-lives separate since the legalization, but ‘Ozzie’ doesn’t bother with the formalities. He just zooms on down over the streets, using his gifts to do business and bypass traffic. It wasn’t as though he really could hide, even if he wanted to. Just serving him coffee you knew something was up, and now that you look closer he’s got feathers growing out of the nape of his neck. It’s odd to think you’d have been supposed to call the cops on him a couple months back. Honestly, it’s a wonder he’s made it this far at all. 

“Can I help you?”

You startle, and shove your hands into your pockets. “Just here to browse,” you say. 

He nods, seemingly content to pretend he doesn’t recognize you despite the gravity of yesterday’s social faux pas. You would do the same, if it’d been you asleep on the counter.

How old is he, thirty-five? Forty? You can’t really tell. He looks young everywhere except his face, where the bags under his eyes droop dangerously dark and his mouth is framed by a deep set of parentheses. Maybe it’s kind of weird to be this curious. It’s probably kind of weird. 

His wings ruffle, and you’re stricken by how natural they look when they move. “Delilah will be in soon to relieve you,” he says to Karen, and reaches up to pat her daintily atop the head. She gives him the sort of glower reserved for close friends, and goes back to reading.

You hastily avert your gaze when he looks back over to you, scrambling to pick up a book from the nearest shelf. It’s a field guide to American birds. 

Har-har.

When you look back up, he’s right in front of your face. You gasp. His pointed nose is almost touching your skin, and you can feel his breath. Very, very close. Like, goodbye personal bubble. His head turns in sharp snaps like that of a hawk; he breathes just as quickly as one, too, you notice, and he’s so near you can see his quick pulse fluttering through the arteries in his neck. He focuses on you with wide eyes, assessing.

You take it back. This guy? This guy’s creepy. 

When he’s done, he steps away, and raises a hand toward you to shake.

“Yes, that will do nicely. Osmont Odwell,” he says. “You may call me Screech.”


	2. A Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you learn some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really interested in what screech's biology must be like..... there's gotta be some weird stuff going on in there, right?

You don’t see Screech for a while after that, and to be honest you’re glad for it. The curiosity burning in your belly can’t outweigh the feeling that something about the man isn’t quite right, in a paranormal sort of way--not like other supes, where their powers make them special, but in the sense that you think he might be some kind of secret crime against nature. You’ve never seen a super be part animal before, and you have to wonder how he got that way. 

You can’t shake the image of his mother screwing an owl. It’d be funny, if it weren’t, like, terrifying.

That said, he comes into the coffeeshop again a few days later, looking even more exhausted than he had the first time. At least now he makes a concerted effort to not fall asleep. 

You haven’t been working here long, and you only recently got this shift, but you get the feeling he’s been a regular for some time now by the way your fellow staff know his order. You watch from the sink, cleaning dishes, as he takes his drink and sits at a window table. 

His eye catches yours and he blinks eerily slow, cocking his head to one side and waving awkwardly before returning to his beverage to take a long, eager sip. 

You avert your gaze. You think you hear him chuckle to himself.

—

You spot him out on the street later that day, sitting cross-legged on a metal bench, carrying a satchel full of books on his left shoulder. His mechanical wings brush against the concrete wall of the shop behind him. Before you can duck for cover, he greets you, and now you’re obligated by social convention to talk. Great.

“You seem to have taken a great interest in me,” he says, voice somewhere between flattered and offended. “I do hope I haven’t done something wrong…?”

How are you supposed to answer that? 

You tell him you’re just curious, is all. He nods, and steeples his fingers. “People do find me curious. Curi-uri-urious, yes, for you see as far as your average citizen goes my mannerisms are not what many would consider ‘par for the course.’ I have learned not to mind it so much.”

Suddenly you find yourself feeling sort of guilty. You’ve treated him like a circus act, haven’t you? Damn. But the bird-man only titters to himself, tugging at his shirtcollar. “Oh, please don’t flatter yourself with the assumption you’ve unsettled me. Not to--not to make assumptions myself, of course. I did mean it when I said I don’t mind.”

You apologize anyway, and he laughs. It’s musical, almost, and contagious enough that you give a strained little chuckle yourself. “I’m waiting for a bus, you know. Isn’t that silly? Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I like to be a spectacle.” 

He sighs, and taps his feet on the ground. His shoes, you notice, are a polished pair of brown wingtips. 

“I must admit, though, it is always preferable when people are up front about their curiosities. Life is much simpler that way, and I like to think I am reasonably open about my condition.” He reaches up with one finger to scratch his hooked nose. “If you have any questions, you may ask. It’s easier than hypothesizing from afar.”

You’d never thought of it as a condition before. 

“I confuse doctors,” he says.

You ask about the wings. 

“Ah, yes--naturally. That is what most people go for.” He shifts, and the wings shift with him, rustling like palm leaves on his back. “They’re prosthetics. I was born with functional ones myself, but over the years they--ah--were disabled out of necessity. The arms themselves function as the foundation, and the mechanical additions allow for lift. It’s not a very interesting tale.”

You say you think it must be very interesting, because not many people are born with ancillary limbs. He smiles at you.

“It could be,” he says, “but as it is it’s sort of sad. I don’t make a habit of troubling people with that nonsense. It did give me this rather phenomenal barrel chest, though, so at least I’ve got that to speak for.”

You shuffle a little, sitting next to him. “What about your, uh…” A gesture to his head gets the point across well enough.

“Three hundred sixty degrees,” he chirps. “Quite astounding, really. I’ve been told the anatomy of my neck is nothing short of inexplicable. My sinews are like bungee cords.” He laughs again, tinkling like the windchimes at the door of the Old Oak Tree, and when he settles he combs a hand through his slicked red hair. “I somehow have managed to fall into the uncanny valley for both owls and people. I attribute that to the luck of the draw.”

He blinks again, even slower than the last time. You give him a sympathetic glance, and apologize for prodding.

“No, no! It’s no trouble at all.” He waggles his hands in front of his chest, the feathers on his neck fluffing out like a natural collar. “If it were me, I would ask as well.”

He bites his bottom lip.

“Come to think of it, I don’t believe I ever caught your name.”

You give it to him, and he rolls it around on his tongue like he’s trying it on for size. “Lovely. Thank you.” 

The bus rolls into the station.


	3. Coffee, Part Two: The Coffening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet the gang.

The next time you see him, he saves your life.

You’ve walked out of a bar, and someone is waiting outside with a boxcutter. The air is cold and stale. The man presses it to your throat and tells you to come quietly. 

Then an owl perches on his shoulder and screams his ears to bleeding. 

“And here we see why I patrol this locale,” says Screech, as the man recoils to recover. When he lunges at your friend with his blade drawn, the harpy punches him in the face with more force than you would expect for someone of his stature. The would-be criminal goes down. Screech dusts off his tights. 

“This place is a hot-spot for harassment on a Friday. I’ve learned that through experience.” Screech bends into a crouch, prods the unconscious attacker with one finger, and smiles wickedly. “Oo-hoo-hoo, lucky fellow. Still breathing. I’ll be taking him to the station now.”

You watch silently for a moment before scrambling to thank him. He looks at you and chuckles again, and you wonder how he ever managed to keep his identity under wraps with a face and personality so very distinctive. 

“I don’t like to think of people being hurt in my district—” he pauses, heaving the man over his broad shoulder, “when I could so easily take the night shift. Preposterous. Anyhoo, you may come with me if you wish, though I don’t know that I could manage to carry you both.”

The thought of being carried in those steel talons makes you want to throw up a little. You politely decline. Screech cocks his head. The antennae sprouting from his headpiece twitch emotively. You didn’t know they could move.

Curi-uri-urious, you think, and smile lopsidedly. 

He does, too.

Without another word, he’s off, boxcutter-man dangling from his clutches. His wings beat fiercely against the still night air. You can hear them churning for a while, and then Screech is out of sight.

Not quite out of mind, but out of sight. 

—

He shows up at your shop two days later with friends, and they all look like they’ve seen hell. Karen’s hair is a messy bun on top of her head; she’s clad in a baggy t-shirt and loose trousers. A skinny man sits beside her in a form-fitting long-sleeve and jeans, fiddling with a phone. Osmont has forgone his usual checkered vest in favor of a pull-over blouse, and his hair, which you have only ever seen slicked, is a tousled mess of red which he fusses with intermittently. Another, whom you haven’t yet met, is a huge woman with blonde hair who has difficulty sitting in her chair. Lastly is a large black man with an army cut and a sweater covered in little knit pictures of whales. They order together, and sit at a booth by the window.

“Tough night?” you call from across the room, because your little shop is dead-empty on Saturday mornings and you’re the only person on shift. “You guys look like you need some batteries filled.”

“Ouggh,” groans Karen, smacking her head on the table. You hadn’t pegged her as a super at first--maybe the hair should’ve tipped you off, but you figured she was just gay. She probably still is. “Did you see the news?”

“No,” you reply, truthfully. The news around here is a bunch of fear-mongering cud, and you don’t often trouble yourself with watching it. Keeps your mind clear and your plate clean, or that’s what you’d like to think, though the anxiety medication says otherwise.

“Some of us would rather not discuss business over coffee,” says the man in the whale-knit sweater, whose name you would later learn to be Kingsley. “Because some of us like to maintain our privacy.”

He must still have some hangups about the whole secret identity thing.

“It was a villain,” croons Osmont, in that peculiar voice of his. His nose crinkles, making him look like an irritable pug. “They were not what I would call super, but their dastardly schemes were certainly enough to fill what should have been our resting hours. No casualties, thank goodness.”

“Yeah.” Karen stirs her mocha with a popsicle stick and adds a hefty helping of cinnamon. “Except, you know, our higher faculties.”

“Head hurts,” says the giant woman.

You rest your chin in your hand and watch them mingle, interjecting occasionally with witty remarks for lack of better things to add. You learn about each of them. Kingsley’s got a day job at a bakery; Karen works the register at a supermarket; Connie, though she calls herself Brick, fosters kittens. The skinny man, Nelson, works at a tech shop. Osmont’s bookstore has been feeling very neglected of late, he says, and he wants to adjust his hours. You make a joke about ‘night owls’ and ‘early birds’ and he purses his lips. 

“Y’know,” you say, “you should be getting paid for the stuff you do. The hero work, and all that.”

“We are,” Osmont replies, “but only on technicality. We’re, em, sponsored by someone with more than he knows what to do with. Most of the money goes to funding our organization, however, and we are left with the table scraps.”

“Like kittens,” says Connie, who you figure relates most things to kittens.

Kingsley scoffs, and crosses his arms. The dejected look coupled with the cartoon whales on his sweater makes him look sort of adorable. “They just want to keep us quiet. Our work is work in all things but name and salary.” 

“Least we got health care,” Karen admits.

“Huh,” you say. You’d thought it was all guts and glory out there. 

“It isn’t just rip-roaring derring-do,” says Osmont, and he takes a sip of his hot chocolate. He said, when he’d ordered it, that he’d rapidly been discovering his increased tolerance to caffeine, to the point it hardly affected him anymore. Only palpitations and anxiety now, he’d tittered, laughing and tapping his chest. You can’t help but feel bad for the guy; he looks beat. “My personal opinion is that it should be a branch of public safety office. Like, em… policemen. Or firefighters. Not that I’ll be fighting any fires--not with these lungs.”

“Oof, yeah. Canary in the coal mine.” Karen rests her cheek in her hand.

“Indeed.”

The High-Flying Screech must be a lot more birdlike than even his appearance gives him credit for, with how carefully he seems to be describing himself. You wonder if any of the others have biological quirks. Must be one hell of a genetic lottery.

“Do you train? Is there, like, a hiring process?”

Kingsley blinks at you with surprise. “Are you interested in working for Deavor?”

“I mean, most everything’s gone public now, right? It sounds more interesting than—”

Suddenly, a stranger walks in. All of the supers at the table clam up, unsure of how much they’re yet allowed to share in the presence of random civilians, and Osmont splutters a bit on his hot cocoa. 

Damn. So much for that.


End file.
